


we've been here before

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Pining, Polyamory, Smut, Threesome, warnings may vary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-15 19:20:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16069634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: A series of ficlets posted on Tumblr that I eventually said, hey I should put that on AO3.





	1. threaded together

**threaded together**

**Derek/Stiles**

 

Derek learns-early, when Stiles is still in high school and they're not quite together, not quite not stage-that the man he loves  _ loathes _ mornings. 

It amuses him, as a creature that rises with the sun, that Stiles is so stubborn about facing the day, grumbling and hiding in his pillows until Derek forced him up. 

He sits on the steps of house he built while Stiles was in college, when he wasn't sure Stiles would come home to him, when hope and midnight phone calls that lasted hours were all that kept him going. Those days seem distant now, when Stiles is so ingrained in his life there’s no telling where one ends and the other begins, their separate lives stitched together the so tightly he’s lost track of the thread. They seem like another lifetime completely, when all that is left of those days is a cracked coffee mug and faded, bittersweet memories. 

He hears the steps creak and lifts his head for a kiss, licking past Stiles’ chapped lips as the younger man curls into him. He can taste minty toothpaste and the honey sweet familiar taste of  _ Stiles  _ and he takes a deep breath, inhaling his husband’s scent and the wet grass dew scent of morning, and he thinks, as much as Stiles hates mornings--he would live through every nightmare and trauma in his life all over again, to have this. 

“G’morning, baby,” he murmurs and Stiles hums sleepily against him, falling asleep on his shoulder as the sun rises. 


	2. welcome home, pup

**welcome home, pup**   


**Peter Hale/Derek Hale/ Stiles Stilinski**

 

“Oh fucking hell.” 

Peter pauses. 

Sits upright and wipes his mouth, ignoring the delicious whine from below him. 

“Darling, as much as I do adore your mouth--especially in bed--that did not sound promising.” 

Stiles snarls and throws a-- _ empty-- _ bottle of lube at his head. 

“ _ Darling _ ,” he snipes, “it’s  _ not _ .” 

Peter stares at the bottle for a long moment, and then Derek lifts his head and says, a little too desperately for any grown man’s dignity, “That isn’t our last bottle.” 

Stiles snorts and Peter--

Peter stares down at his lovely lover, the one he has been dreaming about fucking for the entire month he was away visiting Cora, and feels a guilty pang. 

“Funny story about that,” Stiles says, leaning down and kissing Derek, before he rolls off the bed. “Do you want to tell him, Peter?” 

“This is just as much your fault as mine,” Peter protests, and Derek groans, dropping his head back to the bed. 

“Did you two assholes  _ really _ use all of the lube? We have it in every room of the house!” 

“It’s his fault,” Stiles shouts, in the bathroom and turning on the shower. Peter scowls. Derek’s eyebrows say disagreeing won’t get him far. “He fucking  _ pined _ , Der. It was ridiculous.” 

Peter scoffs, straightening a little, mouth open to deny it--and he sees the pleased little smile on Derek’s lips, the way his gaze is soft and almost bashful. 

“You missed me?” he breathes. 

_ Fucking hell.  _

Peter drags him up and into a filthy kiss, nails that are just a hint too sharp scritching over his scalp, teeth catching and biting at his lips as Derek goes pliant, letting Peter pull him where he wants. 

“Yeah, pup,” he murmurs, against his wet swollen mouth. “I missed you.” 

Derek smiles and leans in to kiss him again, and they’re interrupted by a loud throat clearing. 

Peter twists to look at Stiles, leaning lazy against the doorjam. He’s naked and hard and bright bruises already mark his pale skin and he’s smirking as he waves a dusty bottle at them. “Look what I found in my old travel bag.” 

Derek shoves Peter aside, and scrambles out of bed, and Peter grins, following a little--just a tiny bit--slower, as Stiles’ laughter and Derek’s groans fill up the shower. 

 


	3. what the pack doesn't see

**what the pack doesn't see**

**Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski**

 

He didn't  _ mean _ to keep it a secret. 

He'd argue--grumpily--that it wasn’t his fault it  _ was  _ a secret. 

_ He _ wasn’t the one who blew off hanging out. He wasn't the one who skipped extra lacrosse practice or runs through the preserve. 

He was still there.

Exactly where Scott left him. He didn't blame him. After the nogitsune, the pack kept their distance. They didn't trust him, or maybe they couldn't. And he was drowning. 

It wasn't a choice, to keep it a secret, until he realized they blamed him for Allison, for all the deaths he couldn't stop, and he knew--Scott would never trust him, if he knew. 

So he runs in the preserve and if he is alone (he is always alone) he practices.

And he doesn't tell the pack--doesn't tell anyone--that when they pulled the Nogitsune from him, it left something behind. 

~*~ 

Peter watches. 

He watches because the boy is beautiful brilliant infuriating captivating. 

He watches because the boy is pack, the only one in Scott's miserable pack that he  _ wants  _ as pack, the only one with any value at all. 

He watches because Stiles is pale and lost, and then quiet and hurt, and then cold and determined. He watches because no one else does. 

He watches because he can't look away, the boy too beautiful and puzzling to overlook.

He watches and he sees what no one else does and he plans. 

~*~ 

It didn't surprise him, that Peter was the one who noticed. 

It only surprised him that the older man didn't try to leverage it for power, didn't exploit it immediately. 

Instead, he left a book on Stiles’ desk and an offer to help him, and his number. 

It took three weeks before Stiles called. 

Two more before he would meet with Peter. 

It took  _ months,  _ and the pack's interference, before he realized he trusted Peter. 

~*~ 

He listens. Standing in the doorway of the only Italian restaurant in town, late because no one in the pack thought to tell him, he listens as Scott makes a deal with a witch. 

A witch who cursed  _ Peter.  _

A witch who killed three and put his dad in the hospital. 

He snarls and the witch looks up, horror in her pretty eyes because so many of the monsters in this damn town were pretty, familiar faces. 

Stiles screams and it's rage and fury and  _ power  _ and she shrieks. 

She shrieks as his power wraps around her, inky black and electric, building until, with a  _ pop _ that shatters the lightbulbs, the black explodes, washes the room dark for a moment. 

The wolves stare, shocked, at the place where the witch stood. There's a soot mark on the ground and Stiles is shaking in rage and he sees it, the moment Scott understands the power in him. 

He sees the flash of fear in his once-brother's eyes. 

Stiles smiles coldly and they watch him when he turns to leave. 

~*~ 

Peter sits in the passenger seat when Stiles drives out of Beacon Hills. Power crackles along his skin, jumping between them and it feels like a caress.

 


	4. after everything

**after everything**

**Derek Hale/Peter Hale**

 

After everything. 

After the Argents--three times because no one in this fucking hellmouth town stays dead--, after the Wild Hunt and the Dread Doctors, after the deadpool and the misunderstandings and the lies. After Monroe whipped his  _ home _ into a killing frenzy and Derek--he shakes his head, shakes the thought.

After everything--he’s tired. 

He’s so goddamn tired he doesn’t want to move, isn’t sure anything could make him. 

He has enough money he could do anything, go anywhere--Stiles made sure he had his life back, and what he had in the Hale vault was nothing compared to what he had when he could access his bank accounts. 

He could go anywhere. 

And the bitter truth is--there’s nothing here, for him. 

There’s this: a boy he could call pack, already with his foot halfway out the door, and Peter doing everything he could to push him the rest of the way. 

A pack he doesn’t know and doesn’t want to know, and trusts even less. 

A daughter in love with a man who hates him, a daughter just as happy to use and disgard him as the alpha she loves and follows. 

Even Cora is gone, now. 

The only thing--

He sighs, and closes his eyes. 

The only thing that keeps him here, is the only thing that’s always kept him here.

“He’s leaving again,” Stiles says, and Peter nods. 

He knows Derek is leaving. 

Derek has been a series of  _ leaving _ since before the fire, if he’s very honest. 

“You don’t have to stay here,” Stiles says. 

He almost smiles. The offer made in the Hunt--to leave, to find somewhere safe, somewhere they weren’t constantly fighting for the next breath or someone to trust them--is still good then. 

He thinks about watching Derek leave him, again, and decides, he can’t do that, not again. 

He’s watched Derek walk away too many times. 

“When do we leave?” he asks.

~*~ 

He likes Virginia. 

Stiles is happy in school, happily buried in his work and--Peter suspects but he won’t confirm--a quietly budding romance. And he’s--well, he isn’t  _ happy _ so much as he’s content. There are rolling hills and deep woods and a cozy bookstore where he can spend his days when he isn’t working. 

But there’s something missing, a quiet gaping place in his gut where Pack should be. He’s content. And that is almost enough. But he misses  _ Derek.  _

Stiles doesn’t mention him, and neither does Peter, but he isn’t stupid enough to think the younger  man is unaware. 

~*~ 

Stiles is bouncing in place as Peter comes inside, and he raises an eyebrow at his younger roommate before he freezes, catching the scent filling up the room. 

“I would have warned you but I didn’t know,” Stiles blurts out. 

“Really, Stiles?” Derek says and he can  _ see _ the judging eyebrows for the first time in almost a year. “I come with a warning label.” 

He should. Peter thinks he definitely should. He looks...amazing. Softer, settled. A shock of grey in the carefully trimmed beard, his hair longer and his clothes a little loser. He moves like a predator, but he moves like he's comfortable in his skin, and it makes Peter ache.

“Chris is waiting for me so--” Stiles takes two steps toward the door and waves. “Be nice.” 

“Chris?” Peter murmurs and Derek hums. He can hear Stiles breathless laughter and Chris Argent's low murmur and Derek's heartbeat. 

“I can get a hotel, if you want me to,” Derek says. 

Peter laughs. 

He laughs because it's ludicrous and sincere and he wants to drag Derek into his bed and never let him go. 

“Stay,” he says and Derek inhales sharply. 

There's so much in that word, so much he never meant to say. So much he's tired of choking back. “Don't leave me.”

Derek steps closer and his fingers twist with Peter's. His breath brushes Peter's lips. “For how long?” 

“Always,” Peter murmurs. 

Derek smiles and it's like sunshine, bright on a new day. 

  
  



	5. in their arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This actually has a second chapter and is turning into a full fledged piece over on tumblr, so you can check it out there if you're interested but here's the first of it.

**in their arms**

**Derek Hale/Peter Hale**

 

It’s chaos. The Martin girl is shaking, dragging Jackson away from Derek and Peter, and he couldn’t even blame her for that–her distrust was well founded and carefully cultivated and she shivers when Peter bares his teeth at her in a parody of a smile.

Stiles–bright, brilliant Stiles with his scent of blood and bruises–takes them away, his eyes worried as they skip over Derek, and then to Peter and back again.

Peter is absurdly pleased by that, by his concern, that he at least can see past his own concerns to see how traumatized the alpha is.

Peter wonders, distantly, how the betas can’t feel Derek’s distress, the waves of grief and fury pouring down their bonds.

He dismisses them, because his concern isn’t on the subpar werewolves his nephew has created.

It’s on his nephew.

“Derek,” he murmurs, and touches Derek’s shoulders. The alpha shudders, and for a moment, Peter thinks he’ll pull away and it makes him ache.

Derek  _should_ pull away–he isn’t safe, isn’t trustworthy, and he doesn’t deserve things like family and pack.

“C’mon, Derek,” he says, gently coaxing, and he pulls the unresisting alpha to his feet. “Let’s go home.”

~*~

He waits, impatiently, while Derek showers, burning eggs on the stove and glaring at them when they emerge scorched and inedible. He growls, and turns to dump them in the trash.

Derek is there, bare feet peeking from the hem of Peter’s sleep pants, a v-neck stretched too tight across Derek’s chest, and he feels his mouth go dry.

“You could never cook,” Derek says, distantly. Peter blinks at him, startled by the innocuous statement, and nervously licks his lips. “You–Mom would leave us with you and you’d burn dinner and break down and order Chinese. It’s the only time we got Chinese.”

Peter remembers. He adored those nights, when Talia didn’t send him out to kill or bury the pack’s mistakes, but trusted him to protect their future.

When his apartment was filled with his nieces and nephews and laughter and not echoing with emptiness and regret.

“Is that why you liked coming here?” he asks, lightly and Derek shakes his head.

“I always felt safe here,” he says, and Peter makes a low hurt noise, something that makes Derek look away.

“I’ll order Chinese,” Peter murmurs and he nods, staring at the window blankly.

~*~

He’s quiet, which is never surprising when Derek is concerned, but there is a brittleness to his silence that makes Peter want to whine, want to press into his space and soothe him.

It’s nearing dawn when Derek finally stands and says, exhausted, “I should go.”

“Or you could stay,” Peter says, not thinking.

He doesn’t need to think about this.

Derek belongs here.

Derek belongs here  _with him_.

“I’m not what you want,” Derek says, his voice sharp and cutting and Peter frowns.

“What is it that you think I want?” he demands, standing. “Because what I want–neither of us can have what we  _want_.”

Derek pales, but he doesn’t back away from Peter’s slow approach. “I’m not like her–I’m not a good alpha.”

Peter crosses the room and shoves into Derek’s space. “You are a  _great_ alpha. You are  _killing_ yourself, trying to keep your damn pack safe.”

“They  _left_ ,” he shouts, and his voice breaks. “They  _left_ me, Peter, what–who leaves their alpha? What kind of alpha does that make me?”

There are tears in his eyes and he’s staring at Peter like he did when he was a boy, shaking and desperate for reassurance. And Peter is reminded suddenly that Derek was not raised to know what being an alpha was like. He has no idea what to expect, or what to do, and he has had no one to help or guide him. 

Until now. Peter straightens. He isn’t alone, anymore. He refuses to leave Derek alone again.

“I left Talia five times the year she became alpha. Your aunt Tilly let three times. Her first bitten wolf? Six. Six times before he finally settled under her authority.”

Derek blinks at him, wet and startled and hopeful and Peter’s heart twists.

“Pup, everyone leaves. The wolf and the human don’t always agree–and sometimes submitting to what the wolf wants is harder than others and we run because we’re wolves–fight or flight is our nature.”

He stares, and Peter steps closer, cautiously. “I came back,” he whispers and Derek’s eyes widen, a little. “And they will too.”

Derek makes a hurt, broken noise, a moment before he collapses into Peter’s arms, face tucked into his throat as he silently shakes. And Peter holds him, hums tunelessly as the sun rises beyond his apartment window, and he cradles Derek in his arms.

There’s still a host of problems–Scott’s betrayal, Stiles’ bloody bruises, the missing betas to name a few–but for this moment, he holds his alpa, an alpha he  _wants_ to trust, and lets him grieve.

Safe in Peter’s arm, Derek hides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [in their arms part 2](https://areiton.tumblr.com/post/178187888792/in-their-arms-part-2)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for a headcanon ask.

Stiles is a little overwhelmed, ok. He didn’t  _ mean _ to become the Next Big Thing. All he wanted was to make enough money with his shitty YouTube channel to keep the lights on and his dad in PT.

But then,  _ fame _ happened and he has no fucking clue what to do with it, with all the people who want his attention and the mountain of scripts growing in his dad’s garage. 

He doesn’t even have time to read books anymore, and that right there is the true travesty of his upturn in fame, if he’s honest. 

Still. He’s got the lights on, and his dad has the best fucking care, and he gets to go really cool places. It’s when he’s in said really cool place, filming a movie that is either going to be Oscar bait or THE summer blockbuster (Stiles really didn’t pay attention) that he finds a library. 

And in the library he finds the prettiest, grumpiest librarian he’s ever seen. Maybe just the prettiest, grumpiest PERSON he’s ever seen and he’s filming with Gal Gadot. Stiles quickly decides that the library is his new favorite place. 

The books are nice too. 

It takes him four trips to realize Derek (pretty grumpy book boy is named Derek, glares when Stiles brings him coffee and reads books to little kids in a soft, excited tone that makes Stiles want to melt, it’s  _ adorable)  _ has no freaking clue who he is. 

It’s the first time since his second movie that Stiles wasn’t immediately recognized, and he knows he’ll have to tell Derek eventually, but he doesn’t want to--he wants to be a normal dude with a book, arguing with a  pretty boy about the Lord of the Rings movie adaptations and being utterly charmed by the way Derek flushes when he slides new books across the counter to him, mumbling, “I saved it for you.” 

They start texting when Stiles has to spend a week at a remote location doing night shoots, and the light flirting they’ve been doing takes a turn for the sexy. Stiles spends his time elated that this beautiful, sweet guy--he volunteers to bottle feed kittens and his landlord made him stop fostering pets because he adopted four--wants to spend time with him and terrified that Derek is going to realize who he is before Stiles tells him. 

As soon as he gets back to town, even though he’s exhausted and still covered in fake blood and he’s due on set in three hours--he begs Derek to meet him, stumbles into the all night cafe wide eyed and almost hyperventilating and announces, “I’m a big movie star, and I should have told you but you didn’t know who I was I wanted you to like me I’m so sorry for lying.” 

Derek gives him a smile Stiles really likes, fond and exasperated and amused, and says, “I knew who you were when you came in, Stiles. You just didn’t seem to want to talk about it, so I didn’t.” 

Stiles falls into his seat and gapes at Derek. “ _ How?”  _

Derek snorts, “You came to the library with Gal Gadot. You weren’t subtle.” 

Stiles kind of sputters about that because he’d forgotten she’d been there--but Derek just rolls his eyes, and leans across the table and kisses him. “Shut up and drink your milkshake. I’ll drive you to set.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another headcanon--this one a post apocalyptic.

When the apocalypse happens, Stiles is on the other side of the country. He gets one call from Peter before the power grid goes down-- _ I’m coming. Stay there. Stay alive.-- _ everyone around him says it’s idiotic. There’s no way one man can get across the entire continent, not by himself. 

Stiles smiles and nods and goes about digging himself in. 

Peter can’t leave immediately. There’s the pack to consider--John to consider because Stiles will kill him if John isn’t taken care of. Chris Argent takes John, and heads to Mexico, to Derek and Cora. He think John only agrees so that Peter can move faster, getting to Stiles. 

So he goes. Alone. 

Stiles gets used to being alone. He raids Quantico when he can, works his way through the apartment complex he lives in, scavenging. There’s a little bit of guilt in it--the people died, and the disease...it didn’t kill quick and easy. The death was gruesome and it killed eighty percent of the population. Dirty bombs killed more, and the EMP knocked the power off, and all of it brought the world right down to it’s knees. Sometimes he wondered if anyone else was doing any better--but in the end it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except waiting and staying alive.  

Peter knew it would take time. He didn’t expect it to take this long It takes him almost two years to reach the Mississippi, and by then he’s beginning to think maybe he won’t get to Stiles. He’s a werewolf, and this has almost killed him--the disease, the warring factions of survivors, the damn cult that took over Denver--several times over. 

But there’s hope, and he will always run on hope. If anyone can survive the end of the world, it’s his boy. 

Sometimes he wonders about Chris and John, about Derek and Cora. But halfway through his second year on the road, he feels new pack bonds flaring, and his bond to Derek going brighter and he smiles. It’s the first time in six months he smiled. 

It’s lonely. Stiles has always been a social creature, and being part of a wolf pack only exacerbated that. Being alone--and he is, he’s utterly alone now--it’s been three years since the disease and the bombs and two since he saw someone who wasn’t trying to kill him. 

Still. He’s alive. He has a routine for scavenging and protecting his little carved out territory, and he even hunts sometimes, gets some fresh meat. He’s got his piles of books and his steadily growing stack of notebooks, and he’s alive. 

He got sick, once, the winter before.Not the disease--just a normal sickness but in the dead of winter with no heat and no medicine and no one to help him--Stiles thought it was really fucking ironic a common fucking cold almost killed. 

Still. He’s alive. 

Peter is coming for him, and he’s alive. 

Peter kills a pair of hunters outside of the burnt remains of Lexington. One of them has a bat, old and carved with runes and he loses his shit, when he sees it. Strings them up and carves them slow. They talk. Of course they talk. They tell him everything--but most importantly, they talk about a bunker in Virginia, survivor named Red who will help children and the truly desperate but is brutal about protecting his territory. 

Peter smiles, and it’s savage and bloody, and he leaves their bodies there, as he goes. 

Stiles is in his garden, when he hears the howl. 

He’s been thinking about this day for four years, and he’s dirty and sweaty and there’s a pile of cucumbers at his feet when he stands up. Peter Hale walking up to him--it’s something he’s dreamed for so long he almost doesn’t believe it.

“I usually wake up now,” he says and Peter smiles. He looks different. There’s a beard and his hair is long and messy, his clothes ripped and dirty. He isn’t even wearing shoes. 

“Me too,” Peter admits, and he holds out a hand. 

A shudder goes through Stiles, when he wraps his hand around Peter’s long, soft fingers. He’s real, and he’s really here. Tears gather in his eyes, and Peter brings him close, wraps his boy in his arms and whispers in his hair. “Sorry it took me so long, sweetheart.” 

Stiles sniffles and rubs his eyes against Peter’s dirty shirt. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here, now.” 

He makes Peter shower before they have sex, and it takes a few days, before Stiles can coax Peter out of bed to look at his stockpile. Peter knows they need to get on the road, head to Mexico and their pack--but he’s been traveling so long, he doesn’t want to think about another endless journey. 

Stiles, though. Stiles is brilliant and had four years to plan. The Jeep has been rebuilt and armored, using tech he stole from FBI headquarters and the Navy shipyard. He’s gutted it and it’s waiting for Stiles to cram it full of all the supplies he’s spent four years stockpiling. 

He knows they won’t take everything, he tells Peter. But they’ll have room to take a lot. 

Peter stares at him, bright eyed and so in love he can’t stand it. 

They don’t leave for another week, but only because neither can stay out of bed long enough to think about leaving. 

It takes two months to get to Mexico and the pack, and Stiles squeezes Peter’s hand as the roll up. “Thanks for coming to get me, Peter.” 

Peter leans over to kiss him once more. “Any time, sweetheart.” 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon, Deter with a mob AU

Derek is the only surviving son of Talia Hale. She and her head enforcer were killed, along with the rest of the family, by the Argent family. In the years after, Derek leaves the family in the hands of his mother’s favorite advisor, Deaton and he vanishes underground. 

Derek spends four years killing Argents, and overseeing the family from afar. It’s not a good way to live--he almost dies several times, and the family business is in shambles. But when he kills Kate Argent--he doesn’t even mind. 

He can rebuild the business now. He’s got his vengeance. 

He goes home and takes with him the allies he made on his blood soaked roadtrip. Home is not especially pleased to see him and Derek spends a few weeks with his lieutenants, cleaning house and getting the family in order. 

A year after he returns to Beacon Hills, he gets a coded message. It’s not unusual--during his years hunting Argents, he worked as a freelance assassin. 

But this--the contract is for a killer named Omega. Derek studies him, studies his kills, and agrees to the assignment. 

Erica calls him an idiot and Stiles refuses to let him go without backup, and Derek wonders who the mob boss in his family. 

He finds Omega in France, in Allison Argent’s bedroom. The sharpshooter hasn’t been killed yet, and Derek isn’t sure he wants to save her. But if anyone is going to continue killing Argents--and this killer has a definite type, kills Argents or their known associates almost exclusively, although the occasional lawman will drop at his feet. Derek thinks they’re probably dirty, but hasn’t set Stiles to looking yet--it’s going to be a Hale. 

The way Omega talks, and moves--it’s familiar, and Derek hears him say something that makes no sense.  _ You killed my sister.  _

Except Talia only had one brother, Peter. Derek’s favorite uncle, the one who taught him to kill, and how to laugh, and how to love. 

Derek has spent six years killing and he’s always told himself it’s for Talia, for his sister killed in the explosion that ripped apart their home in New York. 

But it had always  _ always _ been for Peter. 

Omega kills Allison, and it’s--it’s dirty, slashing and rough, all blood and mess and shock value. She dies easy--the mess is more statement than anything. 

“I did this for you,” Omega says and Derek sways. He  _ knows _ that voice, now that it’s stripped of fury and grief. “For a Lone Wolf, you never killed like one, pup.” 

Peter smiles at him, but it’s weak and guarded and Derek sees why--the scars, sharp and shiny on his face. 

He had always been so proud of his good looks. Derek had always marveled over them. 

Derek stumbles across the room and Peter catches him as they crash into each other, and the kiss--it feels different and familiar and like  _ home. _

Peter always felt like home. 

They spend a week in Belgium, until Stiles can get them out of the country, and Peter spends all of it fucking Derek, and when they exhaust themselves, he tells Derek about his years healing and hunting the Argents Derek couldn’t get to. He’d used his contacts from his days as Talia’s enforcers and built a formidable syndicate of his own, and the two brought them together in a reunited Hale family that left the criminal world reeling. 

Derek didn’t care about that, about the power. 

All he cared about was Peter, home and in his bed, again. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fake dating headcanon

Derek doesn’t date after Jennifer Blake. He sleeps with a few people, but it’s never serious, never something that lasts, and he prefers it that way. Which is all well and good until it’s time to go to the Northern Pacific Werewolf Symposium. 

Attending as a single, eligible Hale means he’s going to be inundated with mating offers, all packs trying to secure an alliance with the new True Alpha. 

Peter is, strangely, in the same predicament, and while he doesn’t care at all about Scott McCall’s shining reputation or preventing a pack war when he offends some alpha’s daughter--he does care about Derek and his well being at the week long conference. 

Pretending to be mates shouldn’t be too hard. He even thinks he’s going to enjoy it. 

Derek and Stiles spend the weeks leading up to the symposium cloistered together, separating only when Peter dragged Derek onto the couch to scent mark. Derek alternates between barely tolerating Peter’s touch and pressing into it so needily Peter thinks maybe--

But no. Derek doesn’t look at him with naked love and affection anymore and this weeklong sham is as close as he’s ever going to get to what he wants. 

He takes full advantage of that, knowing he’s going to be heartbroken when it’s over. He touches constantly, drapes himself along Derek’s side, purrs into his ear during panel discussions, brings him food and drinks and tiny offerings like books and people to talk to and on the third night, when even werewolf healing couldn’t assuage the ache in Derek’s  back, Peter bullied a masseuse into giving them a private massage in their room. 

He isn’t courting. 

He’s being an attentive pseudo mate and Stiles needs to shut his dirty mouth. 

The night of formal dinner, Derek takes one look at him in his tux and arousal flares up so hot and fast, he can’t quite control it. Ears burning, he looks away and mumbles something about staying in, starting to push the door shut between them. 

Peter blocks it with his foot, and crowds into Derek’s space, and kisses him. It’s gentle, a question, and Derek whimpers under it, nips at Peter’s lips and surges in answer. 

When they come down, the last hour of the dinner, both of them reek of sex and there is a still healing bite on Peter’s neck and Stiles, drunk by the bar with Lydia, brightens. “Fucking  _ finally _ ,” he slurs, happily. 

The next year, Peter and Derek attend the Symposium again, with no need of fake dating--no one would ever consider breaking up the Hale mates--not when they’re so adorably in love, and viciously possessive. (People still whisper about what happened at the New York Symposium, but never anywhere near Peter’s hearing.) 

 

(Bonus (because someone asked): At the New York Symposium, Derek runs into Ella Hendricks, the daughter of Alpha Hendricks. They were friends when he lived in New York, the pack was good to him and Laura, and sometimes on full moons, he and Ella would hook up. She is  _ very _ pleased to see Derek. Too pleased. One afternoon she manages to corner Derek alone, and Peter finds them, her pressing too close, her hand on Derek’s wrist. He almost dislocates her arm removing her from his mate, but he’s not too terribly concerned--she’s a werewolf. She’ll heal. Peter drags Derek into an nearby empty lecture hall, and gives him a very loud, very satisfying handjob, and then parades Derek through the Symposium smelling of sex and come, and Peter. 

No one touches Derek after that. 

Scott spends the rest of the week trying to calm the irate Hendricks alpha, and Peter thinks that’s just a perk. Derek thinks his mate is ridiculous but he likes it far too much to complain.) 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a slightly tipsy bedsharing headcanon.   
> (I was tipsy. Not the headcanon. Or bed)

Stiles likes Peter. Not like, dirty likes, ok, there is a huge age gap and Stiles lost his virginity to Peter's daughter for fucks sake. 

But he likes the ex psycho werewolf. He’s snarky and unapologetic. He’s viciously protective of his people. And he likes Stiles. So when they get shoved into the same hotel room at a treaty summit, neither complain. Stiles likes Peter close enough to touch. Peter likes waking to the boy’s scent. 

It happens again on the pack vacation. Stiles was planning on sharing with perpetually single Derek, but then he showed up with a bright eyed, curly haired blonde no one had ever heard of  and Stiles got kicked into Peter’s room, and they spent most of their nights pretending there was a giant line in the middle of the bed, pressing as close to it as possible and whispering about the evil bitch Derek was dating. 

(She turns out to be a devil dog. A  _ literal  _ evil bitch. Stiles can’t stop laughing long enough to kill her and Derek glares at him for weeks.) 

It becomes a thing. The Hale pack is stable now, and when they travel, it’s just assumed. When they spend nights in the preserve, Stiles is inevitably relegated to Peter’s tent. He doesn't mind. He likes being in Peter’s bed, likes the nights when they stay up, watching movies or whispering in the dark. He likes the nights they fall into bed, so exhausted neither bother with invisible line. 

He likes waking up next to Peter. 

Things change the night Stiles wakes up and Peter is having a nightmare. He’s frozen and his claws are digging into the bed, his whole body locked up tight and a whine in his throat. 

Stiles knows he shouldn’t touch the wolf, not when he’s so on edge, not when he’s locked in the grip of a nightmare. 

Stiles doesn’t care. 

He shakes Peter awake and the ‘wolf barely manages to stop himself from clawing Stiles, but he does and he stares at Stiles, his eyes wide as the boy sits in his lap and stares at him with concern and affection bright in his eyes. 

“I love you,” he blurts out, and Stiles’ gaze goes soft and hopeful. “I love you so much, sweetheart.” 

Stiles kisses him then, and they both forget about nightmares for a while. 

They keep sharing a bed after that, but Derek wrinkles his nose and says that if they can’t shower better when they do, he’ll seperate them. Stiles smirks and Peter flashes his fangs, “Nephew, I would love to see you try.” 


End file.
